Nobody who had any possible claim to be present missed that wedding. It was the nine days' wonder of the community. As Mrs. Sykes murmured to her chosen intimates: "To think of both them beautiful young gals bein' content to take their ma's cast-off leavin's!"—for the heart-affairs of the Madam were viewed by her realm with a certain proprietary, disapproving interest, not entirely unmixed with pride. And more than one noted that the bridegroom, waiting at the altar-steps with his best man, Farwell, was careful never to glance toward the pew where Mrs. Kildare sat, quite as beautiful and far more radiant than the young creature in white, who moved dreamily up the aisle as if her thoughts were far away. There was a certain amount of buzzing among the congregation.
Jacqueline was married in a sort of daze. She had remembered quite mechanically to keep five paces behind Jemima, to lift her skirts at the step so as not to stumble over them, even to smile at Philip because he smiled at her—a very tender, encouraging smile. As she spoke the words that made her his wife she thought triumphantly, "If Mr. Channing could only see me now!"
It was not until she was going down the aisle again on her husband's arm that the daze lifted suddenly. Her husband! She looked up at him with a little gasp, and Philip, feeling her tremble, pressed her hand, murmuring, "Steady, dear," as he would have spoken to a frightened colt.
Then she remembered that after all it was only old Philip, her friend....
Some hours later they drove back in the Ark from Storm to the rectory—their only wedding-journey—through a world white with the first snow, in honor of their nuptials. They went hand in hand through the little blanketed garden toward the welcome of the firelight that glowed through the cabin windows; and the door was eagerly opened to them by the elderly housewoman, Ella, and proud Lige, both of whom Mrs. Kildare had spared from Storm to replace the worthless Dilsey.
"We all's got two more presents!" announced Lige, a-grin from ear to ear with the joy of the occasion. "Come and look."
He led the way with a lantern toward Philip's modest stable, where they found a pretty little Jersey cow with a placard tied to her crumpled horn, which read, "Compliments of the Possum Hunters."
It was the final activity of Night Riders in that community.
They found the second present on the dressing-table in the room which Philip had fitted up, without consulting anybody, as Jacqueline's boudoir; just such a room as the girl had dreamed of, with slender white furniture, and rosy curtains, and a little shelf of her favorite books, and a lovely photograph of her mother hanging beside her bed—which had once been Philip's photograph. She could hardly withdraw her attention from the delights of her room long enough to notice the present, a small pasteboard box addressed to "Mrs. Philip Benoix," which Philip finally opened for her.
He gave an exclamation. The box contained a ring of oddly wrought pale gold, set with a sapphire cut in a crest. It was a ring which his father had worn as far back as Philip could remember. The card enclosed said simply, "For my new little daughter, Jacqueline."